


Eyes of a Child

by Rae666



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Kid Fic, One Shot, gypsy curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-03
Updated: 2011-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-20 01:41:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rae666/pseuds/Rae666
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home from the surgery to find Sherlock has been changed into a child. One shot - Humour/Crack/Fluff</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes of a Child

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own only my madness.
> 
> Spoilers: None. Unless you haven’t seen the show at all, in which case – why haven’t you? Go watch! Now!!!
> 
> A/N: I was in the mood for something light and fun and in my bored scribblings, I began making a few notes for the following story… thus, this was born.

“Sherlock!” John Watson called out upon entering his flat after a hard day’s work at the surgery. “Sherlock! There’s a kid! There’s a kid in the living room! Did you know about this?”

 

“Yes,” said the kid without looking up from the place he had made his own on the floor.

 

“Wait. What?” John stepped further into the room, dropping to his haunches in front of the child – the child that happened to be wearing one of John’s woolly jumpers. He looked positively lost inside of it.

 

“I said ‘yes’,” the kid repeated, a mass of black curls covering his face as he loomed over several books.

 

“Very funny.” John shook his head and sighed.

 

The kid looked up, expression stern and how was it possible for a kid that could be no older than ten to look so condescending? Pale blue eyes pierced John so hard he nearly fell back.

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me…”

 

Those eyes dropped back to the books and the kid spoke once more. “Very good, John. Now that you’ve figured it ou-”

 

“Sherlock has a kid?”

 

A stunned silence fell. John stared at the kid. The kid stared back.

 

“Are you quite done staring yet?” the kid asked after several long moments, a raised eyebrow and bored tone in place that were exact replicas of Sherlock’s.

 

John nodded.

 

“Good, then you can help me figure out a way to reverse this.” The kid turned back to the books and started flipping pages.

 

“I’m sorry, reverse what exactly?”

 

“ _I’m_ Sherlock,” the kid answered.

 

John stared. Blinked. Then stared some more.

 

“For God’s sake, John, it’s not that hard to accept.”

 

“Actually, it’s pretty bloody hard. You’re a kid. Sherlock Holmes is a grown man.”

 

“Yes, John, thank you for that enlightening observation.” The kid rolled his eyes and shoved one of the books toward John. “Now, read this.”

 

John took the book and blinked again. “You really are Sherlock.”

 

\-----

 

Kid Sherlock lay on the floor, legs up against the front of the sofa as he kicked it lightly. “Bored,” he droned.

 

John ignored him and turned the page of the book he was reading.

 

“Bored,” Sherlock droned again, his kick to the sofa harder this time.

 

John shook his head. It had only been an hour and already he was considering turning kid Sherlock over to the pound or wherever would take him.

 

“Bored,” he droned once more, longer and lower. A loud thump followed the complaint.

 

John stood and moved to stand above him. “Stop saying bored.”

 

Pale blue eyes met and held his gaze. “Why?”

 

“Because you’re driving me mad and I can’t concentrate.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because you keep saying bored.”

 

“Why?”

 

“And you can knock that off as well.”

 

“Wh-smmph!”

 

John’s hand covered Sherlock’s mouth and he stared down into his eyes. “I mean it, Sherlock. I don’t care how old you are.”

 

“Smmfbmph!”

 

“What?” John frowned, brow pulled down.

 

“SMMF-BMPH!”

 

He removed his hand and Sherlock breathed in and then out again.

 

“I said,” he started, “I can’t breathe with your hand over my mouth.”

 

“Oh…”

 

Sherlock glared but said nothing more and John returned to the books.

 

\-----

 

Another hour and John tossed another book onto the ‘of absolutely no bloody use’ pile and turned to look at Sherlock. Sherlock paid no attention to him, his eyes locked on the ceiling as he sat balanced on the very edge of the sofa – feet dangling in mid air. He hummed some annoying tune that John recognised as an old nursery rhyme though he couldn’t quite remember the name.

 

“I can’t decide whether you’ve always been this childish,” he said, watching as pale eyes turned to him, “or if this, whatever _this_ is, is affecting more than your body.”

 

Sherlock pouted and folded his arms across his chest. John frowned at the sight.

 

“You’re shorter.”

 

Young eyes gazed at him through narrowed slits and it amazed John how even with a child’s face, the man was still capable of giving him that ‘idiot’ look. “Yes, thank you – I hadn’t noticed. Though I do suppose that perhaps it has something to do with me looking like a child.”

 

John shook his head. “No, I mean you’re shorter than you were before. You were short but now you’re… shorter.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock jumped down from the sofa and John noted how his jumper appeared even larger on the boy now. Sherlock appeared to notice it too. Panic flitted across blue eyes and he moved forward to gaze at his reflection in the television screen – the only thing low enough for him to see himself in. “I’m growing younger… If this keeps happening then-”

 

John dropped his hand onto Sherlock’s head, silencing him. “We’ll stop it. You’re not going anywhere.”

 

He fished his phone out from his pocket.

 

“Who are you calling?”

 

“Mycroft.”

 

Tiny hands wrapped around his arm, attempting to wrestle it downwards. “No… no! He can’t see me like this.”

 

“You want to disappear completely?”

 

Sherlock fell still and John thought he saw the start of a tear in those child’s eyes. “No,” was Sherlock’s simple reply and he let go of John to go sulk on the sofa, back turned on John, arms and legs tucked into the jumper.

 

\-----

 

Half an hour later, Mycroft was there.

 

He looked down at the still sulking Sherlock with a half smile, the expression in his eyes saddened and speaking volumes for anyone who cared to listen. John did. Sherlock however, did not.

 

“Well now,” Mycroft said, standing beside John in front of the sofa, “this is most certainly peculiar.”

 

Sherlock humphed and curled further in on himself.

 

“I expect you’ve been behaving for Dr. Watson,” the elder Holmes continued, a hint of mocking to his words.

 

Sherlock didn’t respond.

 

Mycroft turned to John, voice turning sympathetic. “He always was so insufferable as a child. He once hid himself in the kitchen cupboard for three hours after our Aunt Edwina tried to give him a haircut. Mummy had to sing to him through the door before he agreed to come out.”

 

John’s lip quirked upward at the thought.

 

“And of course, the baby blackbird. Now there’s a story to tell.”

 

“I’m right here!” Sherlock complained, voice muffled by the sofa cushions. “I can hear everything you’re saying.”

 

Mycroft nodded, amused and just slightly condescending. “Yes, I had hoped you would be able to or else that would mean you had gone deaf as well.”

 

Sherlock humphed again but uncurled himself enough to glare at Mycroft. If the elder Holmes noticed his cheeks were red, he said nothing. John did the same.

 

“Now that I have your attention, would mind ever so much telling me what it is you’ve done this time?”

 

“I didn’t do anything.”

 

Eyes widened and both eyebrows raised incredulously, Mycroft stared down into the childish face.

 

“Sherlock…” John pleaded, dropping down onto the sofa beside him.

 

Blue eyes pleaded back at him, Sherlock’s bottom lip quivering ever so slightly. He shook his head and sat up on the sofa, drawing his knees up to his chest beneath the jumper. He said nothing.

 

“What about that case you were working on?” John prodded. “The museum one with the missing statue.”

 

“Open and shut – passing gypsy saw an opportunity and took it.”

 

John shared a look with Mycroft, frowns forming on both their faces. Mycroft nodded and shifted his umbrella.

 

“I’ll look into it,” he said and then without another word, he took his leave.

 

“I’m going to disappear, aren’t I?” Sherlock asked in the silence that was left behind.

 

John looked to him and no longer saw Sherlock but a small child, lost and scared.

 

“You look tired,” he managed to say around the lump that had formed in his throat. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

 

“I don’t want to dis’pear.”

 

“I’ll stay right here and keep watch... You’re not going anywhere.”

 

“Promise?” was Sherlock’s sleepy reply.

 

John nodded. “I promise.”

 

And whether it was because he wanted to make sure that John did indeed keep his promise or because in that moment, Sherlock truly was nothing more than a scared child in need of comfort, Sherlock shuffled along the sofa and closer to John, laying his head against John’s leg. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

 

Ten minutes later, John joined him.

 

\-----

 

John woke to the dark room and a figure kneeling on the floor in front of the sofa. He blinked and scrubbed a hand across his face, staring at the figure until it became something more recognisable – Mycroft Holmes. He was pulling a blanket up over the sleeping form of Sherlock, a smile on his face.

 

“I didn’t mean to wake you, Dr. Watson,” he said without looking up.

 

“It’s s’ok,” John answered through a yawn. He looked down to his leg to see the mass of black curls still rested there.

 

“He looks so peaceful when he’s sleeping,” Mycroft went on. “Innocent almost.”

 

John nodded in agreement but said nothing.

 

“When he wakes, have him take this.” This being a small bottle of clear liquid from what John could tell.

 

John took it from the man and inspected it with tired eyes. “What is it?”

 

“It is a cure to the curse. It turns out the thief’s mother was not impressed with Sherlock for having her son arrested.”

 

“Oh…” John looked away from the bottle and to Mycroft. “How did you…?”

 

“Once I explained to her that her son was indeed guilty of the crime, she soon realised it was not Sherlock’s fault. Needless to say, when her son is released, he will be in a world of trouble. Still, it seems that this curse has not been a complete waste.” And Mycroft was smiling again, the same smile a person often smiled when they were thinking back to memories locked away with iron chains to keep them from escaping and dragons to keep them protected.

 

Then he sighed and stood, grabbing his umbrella once more. “And now I must be off. My apologies again for waking you, Dr. Watson.”

 

“Thank you,” John said, motioning to the bottle, unsure of what else to say.

 

Mycroft shook his head. “No, Dr. Watson, I should be thanking you. I do hate to think what would have become of Sherlock if you hadn’t been here. He is most stubborn and I doubt he would have ever called me himself. Well then, good night.”

 

And then he was gone, leaving John to stare down at the mass of black curls again.

 

He smiled, put the bottle down, and decided not to wake Sherlock just yet. He was far too peaceful and it was such a rare sight to see him sleeping at all.

 

So John sat there, keeping watch until the sun rose and morning rolled in, bathing the room in warm rays of golden light. Finally, pale blue eyes opened and stared up at him, unguarded in their innocence and yet still so perfectly Sherlock in their stubborn defiance. It was in that moment he understand what Mycroft had meant about the curse not being a waste.

 

 How long had this child been locked inside of Sherlock, hidden away from the world? And now John had seen him, he was certain the image would stay burned into his mind. He just wished he had thought to take a picture before Sherlock had taken the cure, as a small reminder he could hold over the consulting detective whenever he was being particularly difficult – such as several hours later when said detective was dragging John out of the door and towards the latest crime scene.

 

And if Sherlock’s grip on his arm, as he pulled him along, was a little tighter than usual, neither of them said anything. Neither of them needed to. Words were unnecessary. Because Sherlock wasn’t disappearing and neither was John.

 

It was a promise after all and John would never break a promise he had made to a child.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!


End file.
